


Like Breathing

by ash_carpenter



Series: Wired Wrong [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, M/M, Power Play, Rough Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 09:56:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3352355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ash_carpenter/pseuds/ash_carpenter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after 1x16 - Shadow. Dirtybadwrong daddycest with pissed-off voyeur Sam and buckets of angst. </p>
<p>Dean pays his father a late night visit and they both know exactly what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Breathing

****  
  
Like breathing   
  


John heard the knock on the door, curt and demanding, and sighed. He knew who it was and he knew that he’d answer: the inevitability of it all picked at him like worrying a loose fibre. Infuriating.

When he swung the door open, Dean’s forearm was braced against the frame and he had a sliding smirk on his face. All fake nonchalance and swagger. John fucking hated it and Dean knew it too, smiled wider at the irritated frown he received.

“Hey, Dad.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?” asked John gruffly. Like he didn’t goddamned know. But Dean had told him to get lost not two hours ago, saying that it was the only way to keep them all safe, both he and Sam sliced and bleeding from the daeva. John didn’t ask where Sam was; if he could count on anything, it was that Dean had found a safe place to hole his little brother up, patching his wounds before hauling ass out of there.

“Whaddaya think I’m doing here?” he drawled, swaying in a little closer.

“Damn it, Dean,” growled John, planting a hand on his chest and pushing a safer distance between them.

Instantly, his demeanour changed, body snapping to attention and thrumming with pissed-off energy, hands clenching. 

“What am I doing here?” he snarled. “Six fucking months you leave me without so much as a phone call, letting me worry you’re dead or worse. Now you wanna know what I’m doing here? You’re an asshole. _Sir_.”

“I am,” agreed John. “Better to be an asshole than some of the other things I’ve been. I had to get away from you.”

He saw the flinch of hurt, and didn’t care. Dean might want to perpetrate this ugliness between them, but John knew that the blame was his own – and it was his responsibility to do whatever it took to put a stop to it. 

“Why? Are you bored with fucking me, Dad?”

“Jesus, Dean!” John looked around the motel court. It was late, sure, but this was the kind of place where ‘late’ was when everyone was just hitting their stride. He grabbed his son by the arm and pulled him into the room. “Get the hell in here.”

Dean laughed nastily as he was shoved hard, almost tripping over the bed. “What, you’re worried they’ll revoke your Father of the Year nomination?”

John wanted to hit him. He’d felt that way a lot during the last few months before he’d ditched his son and finally been able to breathe again. It had been that more than the sex itself that had finally made him leave – although he didn’t kid himself that the two weren’t linked. The awful lined they’d crossed... It had made Dean angry and bitter, always tense and pacing like a caged animal, only at peace for the few minutes right after he’d come. 

Dean wasn’t naturally like that, John knew. It was the abuse that had done it. And it _was_ abuse; John didn’t cut himself any slack about that. Dean had finally found a way to get his father’s attention and he’d latched onto it, seeking it constantly – but he hated it, John was sure. So did he. 

“You can’t _do_ shit like this,” said John. “We’ve got more important things to worry about, like the demon. And Sam’s back now – do you want him to know?”

Dean looked at the floor, ashamed but mulish. 

“Right. Because everything’s more important than me. I forgot that for a minute.”

“Fuck, Dean...” John exhaled forcefully, scrubbing his hand over his face. “I’m trying to do the right thing here. Why do you have to make it harder?”

“You wouldn’t know the right thing if it shot you full of rock salt,” accused Dean. “Don’t pretend that you give a fuck about what’s twisted and wrong; if you did, then you’d never have stuck your dick in me in the first place.”

“Is that what happened?” sneered John, unable to stop himself even though part of his mind was screaming at him to shut the hell up and accept the blame that was rightfully his. “Because I thought that you got on your knees like a whore when I was too drunk to even know what we were doing.”

“Sure,” agreed Dean mockingly. “You were non compos mentis. And I suppose it was my fault the morning after when you held me down and fucked me through the mattress. And the hundred fucking times after that, too.”

John glared for a moment, then hung his head, forcing himself to unclench his fists. He felt so many things: rage and guilt and sorrow for how badly he’d screwed his son up. The desire was there too, base and sordid, like a rodent gnawing at his soul. 

“You left me,” Dean said reproachfully, voice much quieter. John looked back up and saw the wet shine of tears in his eyes. 

“I had to,” he replied, silently begging Dean to understand. 

“No. No, you didn’t. You _wanted_ to. And I was alone – and hunting. I could have died. I left you so many messages and tried so hard to find you. I mean, don’t you care about me at all?”

“Of course I do. You’re my son.”

He could see the way that the words punched Dean right in the chest. He was so goddamned vulnerable where his family were concerned and John knew that he’d sown the seeds that had led to all this since the boy was four years old. 

John wondered abruptly whether Dean was screwing Sam too. He’d never initiate it, because he’d never do anything to hurt his little brother, but if _Sam_ wanted it... Of course Dean would roll over for him. Anything for family.

Anything to try to keep them from abandoning him.

Irrationally, despite the pity and disgust he felt, it made John want Dean more. Even the _idea_ of his youngest son touching Dean made John feel a sickening, ugly surge of possessiveness. He closed his eyes against the nasty emotion, trying to quell the sudden heat in his blood.

“Dad...”

Dean stepped closer, slowly getting into John’s space.

“Yeah?” breathed John, opening his eyes and fixing them on Dean’s. He stood stock-still, letting Dean come.

“You have no idea what it’s been like.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean was close enough to touch now, still advancing, his stare fierce and full of need – the need for so many things, most of which John had never been any good at giving.

“You owe me.”

John cocked his head and stared down at Dean, eyes hooded. There wasn’t even a foot of space between them and John could feel Dean’s body heat. 

“I owe you a lot of things; I’m not gonna argue with that,” said John, drawl deep and rumbling. He could see the light flush on Dean’s cheeks, the first telltale sign of arousal. “But not what you’re asking for right now.”

“What am I asking for?” murmured Dean, gaze flicking to John’s mouth then back up to his dark eyes.

“For me to push you down on that bed and ride your ass. For me to use your mouth and come all over your pretty face. For God knows how many things that a man should never do to his child.”

“Fuck, Dad.” Dean’s eyelids fluttered closed for a moment, his breathing labouring. John glanced down and saw his cock chubbing up beneath the worn-soft denim. So fucking wrong.

“You shouldn’t want those things, boy,” said John, raising his hand and roughly palming Dean’s cheek, scratching his fingers through Dean’s short hair.

Dean pushed into the touch, starved for it. “Neither should you. But we do. So can we please stop the goddamned charade now and can you just fucking give me what I came for?” 

John shook his head, almost disbelieving. “You’re so sure I’m gonna give into you.”

Dean gave him a lop-sided smile without the faintest hint of humour. “Not me. I’m sure you’re gonna give into yourself.”

John gripped the back of his neck in a punishing hold and dragged him closer, eyes sparking. “Why do you always try to piss me off right before?”

Dean winced, but his dick hardened even further and the challenge in his eyes was more lust than insolence. “Because it makes you fuck me harder.”

John smacked his face and shoved him towards the bed, trying to hide the surge of mixed anger and arousal through his body and the way it made his hands shake. “Get your goddamned clothes off.”

“Yes, Sir,” agreed Dean, stifling his triumphant grin. 

John headed for the dresser and took a healthy hit of Johnnie Walker while Dean tore at his clothes, swiping his hand across his mouth and steeling himself for a moment before he turned to look at his naked son. He was beautiful in the moonlight, chest heaving and cock hard and leaking, dark lashes fanning his cheeks. It was something John should never have seen.

He always made Dean strip, made him as raw and vulnerable as possible. He didn’t even know why. Maybe it was some form of punishment. Maybe it was because he knew the power play got Dean off hard. Probably both. 

As was always the case right before they started, Dean was looking at him with a kind of challenging pride. He was gorgeous enough to be vain, but he was insecure about it too, continually seeking approval. 

John never told him, of course. But Dean trusted actions more than words anyway.

John walked slowly across the room, watching Dean watching him. When he was close enough to touch, Dean couldn’t stand the nervous electricity in the air anymore and practically threw himself at him, surging up to press against the full length of his body and kissing him heatedly. 

John allowed it for a few moments, trying to block out the sensual pleasure of plump lips pressing against his own, and suppressing a shiver when Dean’s tongue swept inside his mouth.

He hated the kissing. He hated it because it was Dean’s favourite part. Dean had never admitted that, naturally, but John knew – and he knew what it meant, too. It meant that what Dean really needed was attention and affection, love and sweetness and security. He needed a father who would listen to him and prioritise him and spend time with him – and for the right reasons. Not because he was getting his dick wet.

John pushed Dean away and he whined, fighting against the grip. He tried to rub against his father, stretching up to seek his mouth again. 

“Stop,” snapped John, snatching his hair and tilting his head back. Sighing at the pleading look in his eyes and the sweet, wanton ‘o’ of his mouth, John gave in and rewarded him with the hard press of his lips, briefly slicking their tongues together. Then he released him with a vicious little push and slapped a hand to his ass. “Bed.”

Dean shook his head and John narrowed his eyes. 

“Wanna suck you first,” said Dean, dropping his voice to its most sultry register. He trailed his fingertips down the front of John’s shirt, catching on the buttons. 

John grabbed his wrist and squeezed, holding his eyes with a dark, stern gaze. He didn’t want to fucking play around. It was intimate and made him lose his goddamned mind with how good it was – and it reminded him of the first time. Despite what he claimed, he hadn’t been too drunk to remember his depressed, emotionally gutted and vulnerable twenty-two year old son sinking to his knees and doing something so fucking wrong with such an alluring mixture of desperation and cluelessness that John had come quicker than he had in years.

“Dean?” said John as he stripped out of his shirt in an efficient motion not meant to tantalise, but which drew Dean’s eyes in quick, hungry little flickers nevertheless. “Get on the fucking bed and shut up, or get out.”

Dean held his eyes for a moment, then swallowed and looked down, obviously thinking there was a real threat of rejection. “Yes, Sir.”

As Dean turned away, John’s eyes rolled back in his head and he felt a potent surge of self-hatred for finding the obedience and subservience a turn-on. He still couldn’t understand how their relationship had become so twisted. Well... That was a lie, actually. He knew perfectly well. But the last thing he needed was to be thinking about Sam right now.

Angry with himself, he couldn’t suppress the desire to take it out on Dean. Not waiting for the boy to find a position, John placed a hand in the middle of his back and shoved, sprawling him on the comforter. His palm was rough and huge, knuckles scarred and skin dark with his perpetual farmer’s tan. The hand stood out starkly on Dean’s pale skin, looking just as alien and wrong as it should. 

John dug his nails in a little, asking, “Did you grease up?”

Dean looked over his shoulder, eyes shining brightly. “Do you care?”

Rolling his eyes, trying to remember whether Dean had been such an insufferable smartass before they’d started this thing (he hadn’t), John popped the button on his jeans and pulled down the zipper. Fuck, he was hard. It still surprised him how much he got off on something that he hated down to its roots. 

Dean was squirming on the bed, trying to prevent himself from rubbing off against the mattress and not really succeeding. He was still craning his neck to stare at his father, teeth making deep dents in his lower lip and his eyes glazed and shining. He wanted it _bad_ , and John couldn’t tell if the pang of remorse he felt was for making him wait or for letting him have it in the first place. 

“Dad, come on,” panted Dean, all eager puppy, spreading his legs wider and canting his ass up. Begging for it. John could see the slick shine between his cheeks and knew that he at least wouldn’t be tearing the kid up too badly. 

John rested one knee on the bed, between Dean’s thighs, and then leaned over his prone body. Sliding one hand into his hair and harshly wrenching Dean’s head to the side, he put his mouth close to Dean’s ear. When he breathed against the shell, he felt his son’s full body shiver.

“Know you’re wet but it’ll still hurt. I’m gonna need you to keep your mouth shut for me, kiddo. Can you do that?”

Dean nodded as much as he could with his hair caught in John’s unforgiving grip, immediately making a liar out of himself by keening and cursing, hips pumping against the bed.

“Yeah, somethin’ tells me you’re gonna need a little help,” murmured John, pulling his fingers free from the short spikes of Dean’s hair and sliding his wide palm over Dean’s cheek and jaw, finally wrapping it over his mouth.

Dean bucked wildly beneath John, moaning against his hand and nipping at the palm.

Silencing Dean, bearing his weight down on him, John had to take a second to remind himself that Dean wanted this – that he’d _asked_ for it. Dean hadn’t been entirely inaccurate when he’d said that John had held him down the first time they fucked, and John thought about that moment a lot. Sure, Dean had sucked his dick the previous night, but had that really been anything other than a pretty fucking serious cry for help? What if John had held him the morning after and said that he was sorry rather than rolling on top of him and pounding all the fear and guilt and rage into his ass?

Well, it was too late now. And one look at the sweating, squirming mess that Dean turned into when John was about to fuck him was all it took to know that they could never come back from this.

John spat into his free hand and palmed his cock, pushing forwards and bracing his denim-covered hips against the back of Dean’s thighs. He rested his chest against Dean’s back, one hand still clamped over his mouth, and then began to sink into his son’s slick, waiting ass.

As he shoved inside, hard, to breach the thick muscle, he felt Dean tense beneath him. It wasn’t until he was sliding into him in a slow, firm glide, and Dean was writhing and grinding down, that John realised that it wasn’t pain. Too late, he slipped a hand beneath Dean’s body and grabbed hold of his pulsing cock, his hand immediately soaked with come.

“Jesus,” breathed John, resting his forehead against the nape of Dean’s neck and just holding himself still, one hand feeling the last spurts of his orgasm while the other muffled his cries of pleasure, his dick encased in Dean’s clenching passage. Scraping his teeth against Dean’s skin and squeezing his over-sensitised dick, he said, “I wasn’t even all the way inside.”

Dean often came quickly the first time, but that had to be some new kind of record. It was hot, in a majorly fucked up way, and John trailed his fingers through the mess beneath Dean’s groin, moaning a little. John felt Dean licking over his palm and he got the message, cursing as he swapped hands and Dean lapped his own come off his father’s fingers.

As he regained a little composure, he felt Dean fucking back against him, trying to get him to move.

“All right, fuck,” he said, moving his hips in a slow, deep roll that had Dean bucking as his sweet spot was grazed. “You this much of a whore for everyone who fucks you, huh? Or is it just me?”

Dean shook his head, trying to talk, and John deliberately kept tight hold of him. The last goddamned thing he needed was to hear Dean telling him that he saved it for his daddy. He felt bad enough already without knowing that it was solely his fault that Dean was such a slut for dick. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he growled, punctuating the order with a couple of harsh thrusts. He began to shuffle onto his knees, slapping Dean’s thigh until he got the picture and got his own knees beneath him, raising his ass up in the air. John put one hand on his shoulder, keeping his upper body pinned to the bed while he slammed into him. 

After Dean had come, he was normally pliant for a minute or two, then liked to ride John for a while, taking some control of the situation. But John was in no mood for that tonight; he intended to keep Dean face-down and submissive so that he didn’t have to endure either eye contact or that awful-incredible feeling of giving up power and allowing Dean to blow his fucking mind. 

He saw Dean’s hand slip beneath his body and knew that he was hard again already. The kid was braced as well as he could be against the mattress, widening his legs as far as possible and letting John have his way without thought for his own comfort.

“Look at you, takin’ it so good for me,” praised John, immediately cringing as he couldn’t remember the last time he’d given Dean credit for a good job outside of the bedroom. 

John closed his eyes for a moment, trying to concentrate on the heat and tightness and the sensation of a willing body, rather than dwelling on whose body it was. It only worked to a certain extent. Out of everything, it was Dean’s smell that was the most familiar to him – of his sweat and shampoo, the scent of the car, leather and gun powder that gave him a hint of spice, and most especially the clean smell of _him_ that John had breathed in for the last twenty-six years. 

Images of his childhood tumbled like a kaleidoscope, dizzying and nauseating, and John had to snap his eyes back open to try to reassure himself that he was with a man old enough to make his own bad decisions. Swallowing guiltily, he caressed Dean’s shoulder, running his thumb down the spine slick with sweat and heaving.

Dean practically purred underneath him, trying to crane his head around, and John glanced up towards the window so that he could avoid his eyes. He hadn’t bothered to close the drapes since his unit was at the ass-end of the dive motel and the window faced out back, over scrubby wasteland. 

At first John thought that his own reflection was looking back at him, but that wasn’t right because the room was dark and... Holy _fuck_.

He locked eyes with Sam, aware instantly of the hatred and anger – and darkly burning lust. 

Without warning, pleasure exploded through John’s body and he came, emptying himself into Dean’s ass and crying out with the sheer shock and mind-numbing ecstasy of it. 

Dean jerked in surprise, looking around as John’s hand fell away from his mouth. “Dad?”

John raised a shaking hand and wiped across his face, watching Sam slip away from the window. Fighting the aftershocks of his orgasm, he quickly pulled out of Dean and scrambled to his feet, backing away from the bed a few paces as he fumbled his jeans fastened.

“Dad? What’s wrong?” asked Dean, brow creased in confusion. He was flushed and breathing heavily, cock still curving towards his belly and drooling pre-come as he flipped over to watch John properly. He wasn’t used to his father coming quickly and with no warning, especially not inside him. 

“Nothing,” replied John hoarsely, trying to compose himself. “Guess it’s been a while for both of us.”

Dean nodded hesitantly, shuffling until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Do you wanna, I don’t know, go again?”

“No,” said John, too quickly. Seeing Dean’s expression, he forced himself to smile. “Some of us are the wrong side of fifty, kid. That’s gonna be it for a while.”

“I can stay,” offered Dean. 

“No you can’t.”

“Well, not all night, no. But a little while?”

His hopeful expression made John feel more like a piece of shit than ever. Usually after they fucked, John would let him cuddle up for a little while, even kiss. Despite still being hard, it was the affection Dean wanted right now, not the sex. 

John stepped forward and ran a hand through Dean’s hair, raising the other so that he could stroke a thumb over his son’s cheekbone. He pulled him close for a moment, resting Dean’s head against his chest and dropping a kiss to his temple. “You need to get back, you know that. But have a shower first, okay?”

“Sure, Dad,” mumbled Dean, wrapping his arms around John and squeezing for a moment. When he pulled his face back, he grinned slyly up at his father. “Wanna join me?”

John chuckled and rolled his eyes, tapping Dean’s face and then hooking a thumb over his shoulder towards the bathroom. “Get.”

As soon as John heard the water snap on and the shower curtain pull back, he was out of the door and around the side of their unit.

Sam was waiting for him.

“Did you follow your brother?” asked John after staring at him for a moment, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans and lighting one. 

“Yeah, boosted a car,” replied Sam, shaking his head when John offered him the packet. “Haven’t forgotten everything, you know. Wanted to know where he was going. I thought it might be here, although I didn’t really expect to find him stuck on your dick. Can’t say it’s altogether surprising.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be like this,” said John tiredly, sucking on the cigarette like a lifeline. He leaned against the side of the unit and scratched at the scruff on his face.

“No, you never do. When did it start?” asked Sam, eyes tracking the line from John’s chest hair down to his jeans and then drifting to the sharp cut of his hip, lingering there. 

John shrugged, absorbing Sam’s dark and voracious gaze and trying not to react. “Couple years ago, maybe. It wasn’t right after you left, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he lied through his teeth. “I didn’t prey on him when he was at his lowest.”

Sam snorted. “Letting you fuck him _is_ his lowest.”

John felt wrath lighting a slow burn through his veins, but he attempted to ignore it: Sam always did that to him. Besides, his youngest was right.

“So, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess that he doesn’t know why I really left for Stanford?”

“Fuck you, Sammy. You had one foot out the door your whole life, so don’t pretend that screwing me had anything to do with it. Unlike with your brother, I’ve never once wondered whether I took advantage of you – because you’d never have let me. If anyone in this family is manipulative, it’s you.”

“I was seventeen.”

“So fuckin’ what? You’ve been wrapping Dean around your little finger since before you could talk. I don’t know why you think I’m any smarter than him when it comes to you.”

“Right,” sneered Sam, dripping sarcasm. “It’s _my_ fault you fucked your underage son. No doubt it’s my fault that you’re fucking your other child too, because I left. I wonder if Dean will see it that way?”

John dropped his cigarette and snatched hold of Sam’s jacket, slamming him up against the wall and praying that Dean was still beneath the water and wouldn’t hear the thump. “Don’t you do it, Sam. Hate me all you want – I deserve it – but it’ll devastate your brother.”

Sam glared heatedly at his father. “Why? Because he’ll realise what a son of a bitch you really are? Or because right now he thinks he finally got some special attention and you don’t want him to figure out that he was a distant second choice?”

“Sam,” snapped John warningly.

“Dad,” he mimicked back, grabbing John’s wrists and squeezing hard enough to grind the bones together. They scowled darkly at one another for a moment, heat sparking between them. Suddenly, Sam slammed his mouth down on his father’s, almost chipping a tooth as they drew blood from one another. Their lips mashed together, tongues licking filthily and teeth inflicting further damage.

John finally wrenched his mouth away, smeared red, and they were both panting and hard.

“Fuck,” cursed John, fingers clenching in Sam’s jacket. “Just get out of here. Dean will be finishing up in the shower any second.”

Sam shoved John away, swiping his sleeve over his lips. “You keep your goddamned hands off him – and stay the fuck away from us. I’m gonna give him as much normality as I can, and that doesn’t include getting screwed by his deadbeat asshole of a father.”

“Fine by me,” said John coldly. In reality, he’d be damned grateful if someone stopped him from messing Dean up any more than he already had. “But you leave him alone too. And don’t come crawling back to me either. You can blame me if that helps you sleep at night – but I remember how it started every single time we fucked, and I never _once_ came to you. To either of you.”

“Wow. You must be so proud of yourself,” mocked Sam. As he strode past John he deliberately shoulder-checked him, stalking off into the night.

John smacked his fist into the side of the unit, cursing when he heard Dean calling for him. Drawing his shoulders back, glad for the alibi of smoke on his breath, he walked around to the door and let himself back inside.

As he pushed the door closed, headlights cut across the ceiling of the motel in a sickly wash, and John swore he could feel Sam’s presence like oppressive storm clouds in the air. No matter how much he loved him and wanted him, the need prickling like a fever beneath his skin, he wished that he had never come back.

“Dad? Everything okay?” asked Dean, standing unabashedly naked in the middle of the room as he scrubbed a cheap towel through his hair. 

John nodded, not needing to search for the falsehood. It was right there on his tongue, like air. Lying as easily as breathing, he smiled and said, “Yeah, son. Everything’s just fine.” 

THE END


End file.
